Tantus labor non sit cassus
by Vulgivagus hagiographus
Summary: This is an extra scene and the last scene rewritten from Chapter XXVII of Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel Uncle Tom's Cabin. In short, it's St. Clair's dramatic death scene.


Disclaimer: Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin and these scenes are actually her plot too. All I am doing is writing my interpretation of them. Enjoy!

**Tantus labor non sit cassus**

_This section is an extra scene before the last scene of Chapter XXVII: Reunion and a rewritten last scene._

It was a pleasant evening when St. Clair had decided to walk to the small café to glance over the evening paper. The news was only partly on his mind though. His thoughts were filled with sheep and goats and doing right, somehow all intermingled with his mother's voice singing that proud Catholic melody. The idea of his own salvation had never lain so heavily on his heart.

Frankly, he had never given his own soul a great amount of thought. His religious ideologies consisted of contemplations done in a leisurely manner from the comfort of an armchair. From such a standpoint it was easy to condemn the world around you while rationalizing your own actions in a most satisfactory fashion. Can you say you have never yourself reviewed your own actions as holy next to the standard set by those around you? Would you not be a good and worthy Christian if you treated your slaves with compassion while your neighbors would more likely send them to an early grave? In this light, is there a reason to think your soul could be in danger for holding your fellow man in bondage?

Rationalized, rationalized; it had all long ago been rationalized. This firm wall of reason that had been erected to protect his lethargic whimsy had been slowly eroding from the staunch Northern attitude of his cousin, Tom's simple faith, and Eva's…

He was nearly to the café and quickly scurried in as if closing that door behind him would shut out the thoughts that so nearly entered his mind. In a sense entering the establishment had the desired effect. The room was filled with men chatting amiably to one another over their spirits. St. Clair sighed, snatched up a nearby paper, and seated himself comfortably in an out of the way chair to absorb himself in the affairs of other people's worlds. He eagerly took up an article exposing the views of some candidates in an upcoming local election, gleefully tearing apart their platforms and policies in his mind. Turning the page he was startled by a large advertisement for a slave auction. He shuffled frantically to banish it from his site. He had had enough of battling those thoughts and now his relaxed attitude was begging for an escape from them.

He had just interested his mind in a story about some bank being shut down for fraud when he heard some voices rise and a shuffling of chairs. Glancing up from the paper he saw a pair of men standing and shouting at each other. The array of empty liquor glasses on the table easily showed that reason was not likely to resolve this dispute. The argument consisted of something to do with money or debts or some other trivial earthly matter; it wasn't readily clear to the outside viewer. What was clear though was that it was only increasing in intensity. Another man, obviously known to the two adversaries, tried to calm them but to no avail. St. Clair saw with horror one of the drunken men draw a knife and grip it with determination.

The motion of the scene suddenly seemed to cease to the on looking St. Clair. Now was the moment of decision. His first lethargic instinct was to bury his face in the paper and act ignorant to the events that were about to take place. From the hidden position of the hand it was safe to assume that nobody else had noticed the fatal movement, so why should it be assumed that he had? No blame would fall on him if this act of evil were committed before him. Besides, when the blade was raised, wouldn't the friend who had come to calm them see it and stop the blow from reaching its terrible end? The more the situation rolled around in his thoughts, the more ridiculous interfering seemed. He was a complete stranger and outsider to the arguments of these people; let them resolve their arguments their way and receive the eternal punishment for it. It was not _his_ fault that society had created such monsters as this. The blame should rightfully fall on the politicians and clergymen that should have prevented this before it ever came to ale and knives.

_Recordare Jesu pie_

_Quod sum sausa tuae viae_

_Ne me perdas, illa die;_

_Quaerens me sedisti lassus,_

_Redemisti crucem passus,_

_Tantus labor non sit cassus._

The melody suddenly came and scattered these pathetic arguments as if they were merely a house of cards. Had the Lord Jesus suffered simply so that one could watch his fellow man be murdered before his eyes to simply blame it on politics and another man's religion? He thought of the scripture he had read to Tom earlier that day and how it is not enough say that you love God, but one must _act_ upon that love. "_Tantus labor non sit cassus._" Let not these toils be wasted. Even though he had perceived time to stop, these contemplations had given the deadly blade time to rise into full view and position itself for its strike. "_Now_ is all the time I have anything to do with." Those simple words of his cousin were the last thing that forced St. Clair to action.

Amidst the screams that filled the café the young man suddenly sprang to his feet and grasped the hand as it was starting its decent. He attempted to twist the knife out of the would-be murderer's hand, but St. Clair was the weaker of the two. He had succeeded in diverting the blow from its intended victim, but the death in that blade had found a new prey.

St. Clair gasped from the extraordinary pain he felt as the weapon slid in between his ribs. The grip that had been like iron before suddenly retracted and the wounded fell to his knees. His head swam as he looked around the room. The bearer of his death look in horror at what he had done. He could faintly hear people screaming and others coming to his side before the world went completely black around him.

The first thing St. Clair saw was the concerned face of his cousin looking down on him. He could here the shrieks of his slaves and wife, but the sound seemed distant. He slowly slid his eyes around the room, noticing the opulent décor of his parlor. He thought of the earthly beauty he had surrounded himself with and how it offered him no solace now. He finally rested his eyes on a portrait of his mother, faintly thinking of her sweet voice and the majestic _Dies Irae_.

The physician had arrived and was tending to his wound. He himself already knew that there was no use. Once their task was finished, he watched as the doctor and Miss Ophelia hurried the wailing slaves out of the room. He couldn't help but think of what might become of them after his death. "Poor creatures!" he said. Why had he let this happen to them? He closed his eyes. No rationalizing could now comfort him in the thought of the brutal masters' hands they could be placed in. His sitting and doing nothing to save at least the poor souls under his care would perhaps be even the death of them.

When he opened his eyes again, the faithful Tom was kneeling beside him with a look of deep and earnest concern for his master. He grasped the slave's hand. "Tom! Poor fellow!"

"What, Mas'r?" he asked intently, eager to do anything to help.

"I am dying!" he said, grasping the large, black hand harder. No longer did St. Clair view the man as one below him, or even beside him, but as one who stood far above him in what seemed that unattainable path to heaven. "Pray!" he pleaded.

"If you would like a clergyman—" the physician started.

A clergyman! Was it not the clergy that preached a cold, loveless religion that excluded such great men of faith as the man kneeling beside him? Was that the reason Jesus endured earth's spite and treason? The clergy had rationalized away God's love just for the comfort of their sins. Could they not see the lies of their words?

The dying man shook his head firmly and repeated to Tom, "Pray!"

Tom did pray. Never had the poor victim heard such earnest and true pleas to the Lord, not even from the days of his youth when he would go to the great Catholic cathedral with his mother. Only the Holy Spirit, not seminary, could teach this kind prayer. All that the white man could do was stare sadly at the man who battled so fervently for his soul.

St. Clair closed his eyes and thought about eternity. Religion had looked so shallow and hypocritical during life, but now in death he remembered those he had known that were profoundly connected with the Lord. He thought of Tom, praying fervently. He thought of his dearest little Eva. Oh, he could not spend eternity separated from that precious child! All the fires of hell could not match the torture of that one thing.

"_Recordare Jesu pie_

_Quod sum sausa tuae viae—_"

Why had Jesus suffered so?

"_Ne me perdas, illa die_

_Quaerens me sedisti lassus—_"

Did he suffer for even such a person as he? Was this all just so that sinners as himself could join with him in eternity? Could God's love be so great?

"_Redemisti crucem passus—_"

On the threshold of death, St. Clair understood what a sacrifice the Lord had made suffering as he did on that cross. Was it even possible for him to reject Jesus' offer when understood as it was now?

"_Tantus labor non sit cassus…_"

Let not these toils be wasted! This last line was offered up as a desperate plea to the Lord. He felt deeply unworthy and tried to figure though is thoughts some way to plead his case, but nothing was strong enough. Before he could even start his defense, he felt the mighty and loving rush of forgiveness fall upon him. Even though weak and dying, he had never felt so alive.

"His mind is wandering," he heard the doctor say.

"No!" the patient said excitedly. "It is coming _home_ at last!" He smiled and would have laughed if he had the strength. "At last! At last!"

His physical body was greatly weakened by this last effort, but his soul was alive. He could see heaven unfold before him. Someone seemed to beckon him to come home. He grasped the hand that was lowered to pull him to heaven. He looked up at her heavenly face. "_Mother_!" he gasped with surprise and joy. He gladly went with her to those streets of gold, always to live in the love of his heavenly father. The toils of his Savior had not been in vain.

The translation for these lines as stated in the book Uncle Tom's Cabin are as follows:

_Think, O Jesus, for what reason _

_Thou endured'st earth's spite and reason, _

_Nor me lose, in that dread season;_

_Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted,_

_On the cross thy soul death tasted, _

_Let not all these toils be wasted._


End file.
